Page 5 of The Lost Reliquary
I don’t understand what is happening until I hear the first choking gasp. Within heartbeats, it spreads, racing through the crowd, an unstoppable wave of death.
And I can only watch as, one by one, the devoted drop to the ground, dead.
Three
The truest moment of devotion comes in our very last, when Death arrives, but faith in the flame still burns bright… Not darkness, but light, will ferry us into our peaceful rest.
—FROM THE WRITINGS OF CLERIC LEANDRO, HIGH CLERIC OF THE BLOOD.
THE RIDE BACK TOthe Dawn Cloister is awkward, to say the least. Especially given the complete lack of explanation that precedes Prior Petronilla ordering us away from the massacre and into our carriage. Three were needed to carry us to the Cathedral; one suffices now, though it’s a tad snug.
And smelly. Morgan and I are caked with the remains of the encounter, and even with the windows thrown open, it’s nearly unbearable. I almost feel bad for the younger Potentiates, whom Prior Petronilla held back from the fight, preventing what would have surely been more empty seats. Almost immediately, Reia, the youngest allowed to attend today, begins to cry.
Morgan slaps her, the sharp snap of flesh on flesh breaking the heavy silence.
“Stop sniveling.” It’s impressive how intimidating Morgan manages to make herself while pale and sweating, leg wound hastily bandagedand probably pure agony. And yet, no obstacle to being a colossal bitch. “You’re lucky the Prior isn’t here to see you.”
“Don’t listen to her.” I don’t look at either of them as I speak, watching out the window as the skeletal stretch of Cathedral complex recedes behind us: its skirt of imposing bone-white walls, around which the gilded structures of Lumeris cling; the pointed tower where the Goddess dwells; and the fire that glows at its golden pinnacle—always lit, always burning. The Enduring Flame. “The smell would make anyone’s eyes water.”
“What…” Reia, barely fourteen, sniffles. “Whatwasthat?”
Morgan raises her hand again, but I grab her wrist and hold it, eyeing her askance.Daringher. Scowling, she shakes free, but doesn’t try to strike again.
“Heresy.” I reply to Reia’s question the way the clerics would. That handy, all-purpose answer that explains exactly fuck all about what just happened. Because there’s only two things I’m sure about right now.
The first—a conclusion punctuated by the corpses of a few hundred devotees—is that Reia is better off not asking questions. That whatever happened wasn’t meant to be seen.
Which also serves to confirm my second conclusion: that Emmaus not only tried to assassinate Tempestra-Innara, but nearly succeeded.
The Dawn Cloister is as heavy and dark as Lumeris is ethereal and light. And yet, a welcome sight. The moment we stop, I throw open the door of the carriage and begin shedding the pieces of my armor in the stable yard—leaving them for the attendants to gather, clean, whatever—driven inside by one thought and one thought only:
A bath.
My sickles I keep close, though, sheathed on my back, despite an itch to hold them. Once I’m through the nearest archway, thick stone walls douse the noise of our return with cold silence. Unlike the gilded, ornate Cathedral and matching sprawl of Lumeris, the Dawn Cloister is austere in decoration. Still, plenty of statues of my Potentiate predecessors lurk in niches and corners throughout. They have nothing to say as I blow past them, lucky enough to be immune to the pungentscent I bring. I bypass the wing that houses our cells, the classrooms and training halls, not slowing until I feel the air around me begin to turn warm and damp. Isolated in the hills, a few hours’ ride from the Cathedral, the Dawn Cloister doesn’t have a lot of amenities one might call luxurious. But there is a system of natural hot springs that feed its baths. Minerally steam fills my nostrils as I enter a bathing chamber, making sure to bar the door before stripping off my ruined uniform and plunging into the heated waters.
There, finally, I begin to shake.
Today, I almost watched the Goddess die.
For some indeterminable amount of time, this is the only thought in my mind as I stand in the center of the sunken pool, hypnotized by the tendrils of steam snaking off the water’s surface. Only when the smell begins to get to me again do I reach for a bar of soap and scrub furiously until the last of the foul ichor is gone. Then, slowly, I sink, descending until entirely submerged. Strands of wine-red hair swim across my blurred vision, a reminder of my gift. I’d begun dyeing it years ago, inspired by devotees I’d spied during a period when the color was in fashion. Eventually, I stopped, but it kept growing that hue all the same, a quirky—but far from unique—side effect of being one of Tempestra-Innara’s Chosen. Jeziah arrived at the Dawn Cloister with wrists ringed by vivid black tattoos that betrayed an origin among the nomads of the northern Riverlands. If he’d remained with them, those tattoos would have climbed until they reached his collarbone. Instead, as time passed, the ink faded to the barest ghosts, though he still covers them when he can.
Coveredthem. My gut clenches briefly, but whatever grief I owe Jeziah can’t stand against the confounded numbness.
The divine gift can affect us in the same way the Goddess can affect the world—altering it, molding it, locking the only door to safety—albeit in simpler, smaller ways. But I’d never imagined anything—divine or created by human hands—resulting in what happened to Emmaus. My hand goes to my reverie, made of solid gold, still yoked around my neck by its chain despite the tumult of the battle. What could possibly turn someone into an unimaginable horror in a matter of seconds, while be secreted in such a small vessel? Why would Emmaus ingest it willingly?
And—most important—how powerful was it to make Tempestra-Innaraafraid?
I surface on my back, floating as I scour the events of the execution as thoroughly as I did my skin. The battle and subsequent slaughter are insignificant.
Emmaus’s change.
Tempestra-Innara’s fear.
These are the moments I come back to.
These are the moments that set me shaking again. Not because of what Emmaus did, but because itcouldbe done. For years, I’ve imagined inflicting every sort of death imaginable on the Goddess, knowing all along that my thoughts were impossibilities. That nothing I could do would even scratch their power. The Goddess was untouchable—endless—and because of that, so was my fealty to them.
I sink beneath the water again.
